


After All (You're My Wonderwall)

by crisptrepidation



Category: Glee
Genre: 1970s, 1980s, Ableism, Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Politics, Bisexual Artie Abrams, Bisexual Mike Chang, Bisexual Tina Cohen-Chang, Canon Disabled Character, Disability, Disability Rights Movement, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Gay Pride, Gay Rights, Gay Sam Evans, Gay liberation movement, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Harvey Milk Campaign/Era, Historical References, Homophobic Language, Lesbian Quinn Fabray, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Politics, Pride, Religious Conflict, San Francisco, Vietnam War, fabrevans gay besties, gay rights movement, sam is a baby gay southern gentleman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29826528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crisptrepidation/pseuds/crisptrepidation
Summary: In the summer of 1977, Sam Evans heads west in search of people like him.
Relationships: Artie Abrams/Sam Evans, Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel, Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce, Tina Cohen-Chang/Quinn Fabray
Kudos: 5





	After All (You're My Wonderwall)

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY HC'D BIRTHDAY ARTIE ABRAMS!!! 27 TODAY (march 3rd)!!!  
> This fic is dedicated to my friend & fellow Artie stan, Alexa. This chapter is her present for his birthday!
> 
> Quick disclaimer: this story starts in the late 70s, and portrays period-typical attitudes and (ableist/homophobic) language. I do not condone this language, unless used in reclamation by disabled and LGBT+ people, and advise you to read with caution if you think it could be potentially triggering to you (context: none of the language is more severe than what was on Glee). 
> 
> Title from Wonderwall by Oasis.

“ _The only thing they have to look forward to is hope. And you have to give them hope. Hope for a better world, hope for a better tomorrow, hope for a better place to come to if the pressures at home are too great. Hope that all will be all right. Without hope, not only gays, but the blacks, the seniors, the handicapped, the us'es, the us'es will give up. And if you help elect to the central committee and other offices, more gay people, that gives a green light to all who feel disenfranchised, a green light to move forward. It means hope to a nation that has given up, because if a gay person makes it, the doors are open to everyone_.” - Harvey Milk

_San Francisco, California, 1977_

Sam had taken the first train west.

He’d shoved what he could in a backpack, bought the ticket with the money he had left from the shop (after Stevie and Stacey’s birthday presents were taken care of), and he’d ran.

They’d made it clear he wasn’t to show his face anywhere near Sweetwater, Tennessee again.

So, he went to where the disgusted announcers on the radio said people like him congregated. Where faggots ran for office and dykes held hands in the street.

That was how Sam Evans, a picture-perfect southern gentleman, found himself wandering down Castro Street on a hot July night in 1977.

If he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought Castro was just like any other street. His mother had made it sound like the queers would have horns growing from their heads, but the women and men strolling this block didn’t appear any different from anyone else he’d seen since hopping off the Amtrak in the Financial District. Maybe their shirts were a little shorter, pants a little tighter, that was all. _Wasn’t that harmless enough?_ Sam thought.

He passed a camera shop, the Castro Theatre with its big lit-up sign, and his gaze landed upon a group milling about outside a diner who couldn’t have been older than twenty. They were the youngest people he’d seen on Castro Street so far, and they were laughing and calling out things to passersby in the street.

As Sam approached, he heard exactly what these people, two men, and two women, were saying.

“My name is Kurt Hummel from the Milk Campaign and I want to recruit you!” exclaimed a high-pitched voice from a baby-faced brunet man who was wearing the perplexing combination of a neck scarf, a white tee shirt with blue and red lettering reading _Harvey Milk for Supervisor_ , a crochet vest that had definitely been designed for a woman, and possibly the shortest shorts Sam had ever seen.

The Latina woman who stood beside Kurt laughed at him, “I suggest you shut it, Hummel, and let Q and I give recruitment a shot. You have just about the gayest, most annoying voice I’ve ever heard,” She shook her head and puffed on a cigarette.

Kurt rolled his eyes, playfully nudging the woman. “We’re on the Milk Campaign, Santana. Good luck not sounding gay.”

Slowly, Sam’s attention shifted from Kurt, and the woman, Santana, apparently, to the other man of the group, whose eye had equally become caught on Sam. He too sported a Milk Campaign tee shirt, but with a pair of striped bell-bottoms and aviator glasses, and he was furiously pushing his wheelchair towards Sam.

The man cut Sam off in his tracks, nearly causing Sam to trip into his wheelchair.

“Hey! Don’t wanna tip over a gimp, do you? That’ll get ya, like, three points closer to Hell.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean-” Sam stammered out apologetically, his face flushed red.

“I’m just fucking with you,” the man, who Sam then noticed had the most piercing of cobalt eyes behind his large frames, chuckled. “I totally cut you off,” he stuck out his hand for Sam to shake. “I’m Artie, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“Uh, yeah. I guess I’m new?” Sam replied, like more of a question, while shaking Artie’s hand.

Artie nodded, “finally braved going south of Waller? I know, it took me a while too.”

“I’m sorry?” Sam had no idea what _south of Waller_ meant.

“South of Waller Street?” Artie suggested.

Sam just shook his blonde head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, man.”

Artie laughed again, shifting his chair back and forth, and rephrased himself. “This is your first time in the Castro? Most people avoid it like the plague.”

“Oh!” Sam exclaimed, “no, I’m, uh, new to California. First day,” he offered an awkward smile. “You couldn’t tell?”

“Oh, _shit_!” Artie’s eyes widened, clueing into Sam’s slight drawl. “Damn, welcome aboard.”

Sam saluted, and Artie shook his head, smiling. “You’re bringing me back. Well, I was just a lieutenant. No need to salute _at_ me.”

Sam’s confused expression reappeared.

“Vietnam, last year of the war. That’s how I got my sweet ride,” Artie explained.

“Wow, thank you for your service, _sir_ ,” Sam said.

“No way. Jesus, you’re precious. Kurt, get over here! You gotta get a load of this,” Artie called for his friend.

Kurt more or less sauntered towards Artie and Sam, Santana, and the fourth member of a quartet, a blonde woman in a short floral dress, followed closely behind.

Artie rolled back a stride, falling in line with his friends, and gestured toward Sam. “Today is this handsome young gentleman’s first day in San Francisco, and wait for it,” Artie paused, giving Kurt a chance to smile warmly. “He called me sir and thanked me for my service.”

“Hah!” Santana laughed, flicking her cigarette.

“I’m confused, did I say something wrong?” Sam wondered aloud.

“God, you are precious,” the blonde woman smiled at Sam. “No, you didn’t say anything wrong.”

Artie bounced off the blonde. “It’s just most people don’t thank those of us who got hurt in the war for going overseas. They probably wish we’d just died overseas, instead of coming home to ‘burden the economy’. They thank the pretty little heroes standing on two feet who pretend they’re not just as fucked up inside and don’t want the rest of us wasting their precious taxpayer dollars. Get especially pissy when they realize it’s a faggot sitting in the chair.”

Sam knit his brows together, “that doesn’t seem very fair.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Artie sighed.

Kurt cut in there. “So,” he paused. “I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“I’m Sam Evans. Sam, I am, and I don’t like green eggs and ham.”

Santana laughed at him, “Ho _ly_ shit.”

The blonde woman elbowed Santana, mumbling be nice through gritted teeth. “Hi, Sam, I’m Quinn. Nice to meet you. Um, how old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Oh my god, he’s a baby,” Santana declared.

“But, uh, you guys don’t seem very much older?” Sam asked.

Quinn rolled her eyes, but not at Sam. “We’re not, Santana’s just an asshole. Kurt and I are twenty-one, but Santana and Artie, they’re only twenty.”

“Anyways,” Kurt began, ever eager to get back on the political track. “Do you care about our liberation-”

“Hold up a sec, Kurt. We don’t even know if he’s gay,” Artie cut Kurt off, and they began talking like Sam wasn’t even there.

“You didn’t clarify that?” Kurt looked exasperated, and like he might yell at the next person to omit important details.

“He seemed a little lost,” Artie shrugged.

“Jesus, okay,” Kurt ran a hand through his hair, calculating.

“No, don’t worry, I’m uh-” Sam piped up, but his chest became tight, he couldn’t get the last word out. He’d never said it out loud

The quartet was looking at him expectantly. Kurt, with his strange vest and paper handouts; Santana, who wore huge earrings and was on her second cigarette; Quinn, with her patient smile; and Artie, with bright printed pants and his big blue inviting eyes.

Artie caught on first, “Oh, no you don’t have to. Well, perfect, that’s great.”

Kurt was a bit incessant, “so, do you, Sam? Care about gay rights?”

Sam took in the scene around him. The humid Bay Area air, the theatre with its proud _Castro_ sign, the unabashed people before him. “Sure I do.”

Artie more or less cheered, and Quinn hugged the southern boy she’d only just met.

-

Quinn had taken Sam by the hand and led him inside the diner, which, as it turned out, was packed with people, all of whom Kurt, Santana, Quinn, and Artie seemed to be friendly with.

“Rachel! We got someone!” Kurt called out proudly.

Rachel, a tiny brunette in a red waitress uniform walked out from behind the service counter and rolled her eyes. “One person? Four of you, in an hour, got one new person?”

Santana, who’d proved herself to be somewhat of a chainsmoker, smoked as she spoke, “I told you, Berry, no one wants to come near Hummel’s gay face and they think Wheels can spread terminal cancer through his chair. Should’ve let me and Quinn go alone.”

Rachel scowled, angrily shoving a pad of paper in her little white apron. “80% of the Castro residents are gay men, Santana, it makes no sense it send _lesbians_ out campaigning.”

Santana puffed on her fifth straight cigarette since Sam had met her, “If you hate lesbians so much, I really don’t know why you’re here.”

“Remember, San,” Artie said sarcastically, wheeling up beside Santana, “her dad’s gay so she’s basically in charge of us all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Santana shook her head, annoyed, and pointed a wagging finger at Rachel. “Just ‘cause your daddy fucked Milk _five years ago_ doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do.”

Artie then turned to Sam, who’d stay quiet, intimidated by Rachel Berry, the angry waitress. “She’s totally wrong, you know. The fifth district is bigger than The Castro, we do have to at least try to appeal for some outside support. Anyways, c’mon, I’ve got people for you to meet.”

Sam followed as Artie wove his chair through the web of closely placed diner tables, leading him towards a corner booth, where a group of people hovered over a table full of pamphlets.

“Ahem,” Artie cleared his throat, “Ladies and Blaine, meet Sam. Sam, meet the ladies and Blaine.”

The individuals crowded around the table, all dressed eclectically and speaking loud and expressively introduced themselves: there was Brittany, another blonde, who looked straight out of Woodstock; Tina, who had dyed hair and wore leather, she looked like one of the punks Sam’s mother had once warned him to be devil worshippers; Unique, who would’ve been tall on a normal day but accentuated her height with six-inch platforms and called Sam ‘ _sugar_ ’; and the aforementioned Blaine, a man with gelled black hair in tight red pants and a collared shirt.

Artie explained that Brittany was dating Santana, Tina was with Quinn, and Blaine was Kurt’s boyfriend.

“Do you, um, have a boyfriend?” Sam turned bright red when he asked Artie the question, he’d never asked a man about his relationships with other men.

Artie smiled sheepishly. Sam only noticed that he really liked Artie’s smile. “Hah, no. It’s hard to find someone who wants to deal with all _this_ ,” Artie gestured to himself, his chair.

“Oh, well-” Sam started, instinctively, he wanted to tell Artie he was wrong, but what did he know? He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

Artie cut him off, continuing. “I mean I have sex, there’s guys like Mike, you’ll meet him later, but no, nothing serious.”

Sam nodded, all of this was so new to him, he’d never heard people talk openly about _gay sex_ before. Part of him was still surprised lightning hadn’t struck down from the sky and taken them all out like the hand of God the moment any of these California gays opened their mouths.

Artie put a hand to his face, apologetic and embarrassed. “I’m sorry, you didn’t ask to know about my sex life.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Sam assured. “You don’t have to apologize, it’s just all a little new to me. You’d be killed if you talked like this back home.” Sam half-laughed, but it wasn’t funny at all.

Artie looked up at Sam, earnest cobalt blue eyes and all, “where’s home?”

“You ever heard of Sweetwater, Tennessee?” Artie shook his head. “West of Knoxville. It’s nothing too special, but it’s home.”

“I can’t say I have,” Artie replied, almost smirking. “So, Sam, what brings you to San Francisco? You got anything else to tell about yourself, besides, you know, not liking green eggs and ham?”

Sam told Artie about how he’d heard about The Castro on the radio, on the station his mother like that played Anita Bryant music and aired her political opinions right along with it. Artie had found that absolutely hysterical. _So Anita Bryant’s plan completely backfired? You heard about all us city queens and thought, I wanna join them?_ Sam smiled softly, something like that.

Artie talked a lot, he asked a lot of questions, absolutely enthralled by how a boy from Tennessee had ended up beside him in a diner full of queers in The Castro. Sam probably should’ve found Artie more annoying than he did, he asked questions about Sam’s family that he wasn’t ready to answer, he used slang Sam had never heard in his life, but for some reason, Sam was terribly charmed by the older boy.

Sam and Artie were only cut off when Kurt hopped onto a table and began speaking to the diner patrons as a whole.

“My name is Kurt Hummel and I want to recruit you.” It was the same line from earlier, but it still seemed to pump up his audience; a cheering chorus of whistles and whoops, a “fuck yeah!” from Santana ensued.

“That’s my cue,” Artie said to Sam, departing him to join Kurt, as well as Blaine, at the centre of the room.

“We’re with the Milk Campaign, and we’re looking to sign up some more volunteers for door-to-door canvassing,” Blaine continued for his boyfriend.

“Especially women. We want to stress Harvey’s promises for affordable daycare centres to working mothers in the area, but we’ve all got a feeling these ladies won't be so receptive to a bunch of faggots telling them about social programs for raising their kids,” it was Artie who added that, looking smugly at Rachel.

“Santana, Quinn, Tina, Britt, I’m looking at you,”

“You got it!” Tina called back.

Artie grinned at the girl, and continued his spiel, talking about promises of low-income housing and tax code reformations. He praised Harvey Milk’s anti-war stances “He’s a vet,” Artie said. “He knows what he’s talking about. He’s seen the realities. You know, growing up I thought soldiers were kick-ass and everything, and sure, we are. But like any sane person in this country, Vietnam gave me a change of heart. It’s not about how damn sexy and patriotic I looked in that uniform. It’s about how senseless that war was, and Harvey Milk knows that. He believes in peaceful protest. He’s seen them both, and he knows which one’s the damned right way,” Artie paused. “Harvey Milk is the real deal. He’s put his money where his mouth is. He’s a real Castro business owner, doing his best for the working people, just like you all are. Don’t you want someone like you representing you?”

The diner patrons answered with a resounding ‘yes’.

“You know, right now, we don’t have anyone protecting us,” that was Blaine’s turn to speak. “The cops couldn’t give less of a shit. Hell, they’re looking for reasons to lock us up. What we need is someone like us in office. Someone who gets it and is gonna look out for our best interest, and the best interests of other people like us,” Blaine emphasized wildly with his hands when he got really worked up.

If he was honest, Sam was almost clueless about progressive politics, but he’d be damned if he didn’t admit the people in the diner had made Harvey Milk sound like one hell of a guy.

-

With Artie and Quinn’s encouragement, Sam had signed up to go door-to-door canvassing later that week. _May as well, right?_ He’d thought. _I’ve got nothing better to do_.

When the meeting finished, it was nearing 10 PM and the diner was quickly emptying out, but Artie glided back over to where Sam sat in the back corner, instead of towards the door. He asked Sam if he had plans, offering to drive him to his hotel, or his apartment, _if he’d found one yet_.

“I haven’t exactly found somewhere to stay yet,” Sam admitted.

Artie’s gaze faltered, but his words didn’t miss a beat. “In that case, you’re definitely coming with me.”

“Hurry up, Abrams! And bring your new boy-toy, we’re going to the Station,” Santana called across the diner, her arm around Brittany, and one foot already out the door.

Artie unlocked his breaks, “you coming?”

-

‘The Station’ turned out to be Castro Station, a bar down the street, where, Artie explained, their roommate Mike (who hadn’t been able to get the night off for the diner meeting) worked as a bartender.

The bar was dark but lit up neon, and it was equally as lively as the diner had been, full of many of the same people. One of the girls from earlier, Unique, was dressed in sequins and performing onstage.

“What are you drinking?” Artie asked.

“I’m eighteen-” Sam replied, quizzical.

“Uh huh, what are you drinking?” Artie repeated, laughing.

Sam hesitated, thinking hard. Did gay bars sell the same kind of drinks his dad sipped on in the backyard on a Saturday afternoon or did they have a whole other secret menu? He didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

Artie picked up on Sam’s uncertainty and ordered for him. “Mike!” He called to the tall Asian man in a leather jacket behind the bar. “Can you get this man a whiskey?”

“Sure thing,” Mike nodded, busying himself with bottles of liquor, he seemed to know what Artie wanted without the other man saying a word.

Mike handed them their drinks, and Artie clinked their glasses together, _cheers, man, I’m glad you found us_.

Brittany and Quinn appeared then, the latter taking Sam by the arm again and dragging him to the dance floor, while Brittany grabbed the handles of Artie’s chair and pushed him in the same direction.

 _I hate when she does that_ Artie mouthed to Sam, rolling his eyes.

Sam gave him a close-lipped smile, empathizing.

Artie shrugged, as if to say fuck it, and went with the moment. He chugged the remainder of his gin and juice, throwing the glass down on a nearby table, and spun around twice, getting into the music.

Sam danced with Quinn for a few songs, and continued to hover next to her when they took a breather, standing on the edge of the crowd, people-watching. Quinn was waiting for Tina to return with another drink, Sam was just following her around like a lost puppy, but she didn’t mind.

“You know he’s been flirting with you all night,” Quinn spoke into Sam’s ear.

“What, who?” Sam raised his eyebrows, genuinely puzzled.

Quinn giggled at him, “Artie. He’s totally into you.”

They both looked on at Artie, who was drunkenly head bopping and weaving his way between Brittany and Santana, whose attention was much more focused on dancing with each other.

“I-uh, I don’t think so,” Sam laughed awkwardly. Quinn was full of it, she had to be. She was just trying to make Sam feel included Artie was confident, experienced, and decidedly queer. What could he possibly want with the new and green, bumbling southern boy who couldn’t even get the words out.

“He is, I swear, you’ll see,” Quinn squeezed Sam’s arm encouragingly.

Artie seemed to clue into the two pairs of eyes on him. “C’mere,” he called to Sam, over the music, motioning him over. Sam stepped towards him, but Artie was still gesturing.

“What?” Sam stared at Artie, confused.

“No, seriously, come here,” Artie was motioning for Sam to sit in his lap.

Sam went red. Sitting in someone’s lap was romantic, kind of intimate, and unmistakably gay. Sam had never done that in front of people before. He was mortified.

“Oh, shit, no pressure, I mean, only if you want to, of course,” Artie was backtracking.

“I, uh, have to use the restroom,” Sam avoided eye contact, making a beeline towards the restroom.

He ran into the small, rundown room, ignoring the sounds of what he could only assume were hookups from the stalls behind him, and stood nearly frozen, looking himself up and down in the mirror. Blonde hair, longer towards the front, closer cropped along the base of his neck; a blue tee shirt; jeans. If it weren’t for the setting he found himself in, he’d be completely inconspicuous.

Sam had no idea what he was doing. He’d never done any of this before. He’d kissed a boy behind the bleachers back home (and that had ended, well, not spectacularly, to say the least). That was it. _Fuck_ , he’d thought. He’d totally embarrassed himself, and probably offended Artie too.

Quinn appeared in the doorway, Santana on her heels. “Oh, Sam.”

He grimaced at her through the mirror. “I guess you were right.”

“Unfortunately, she usually is,” Santana said.

Santana busied herself fixing her hair and lipstick at the sink next to Sam, while Quinn moved to comfort the younger boy.

“I have no clue what I’m doing,” Sam confessed.

“Oh, we can tell,” Santana, ever candor, replied.

“I’ve never, you know, had a boyfriend or anything before,” Sam told the girls.

“You don’t need to worry, Sam. He’s not trying to get you to be his boyfriend all in one night. I promise,” Quinn wet a paper towel and dabbed at Sam’s forehead. “Sitting on Artie’s lap is just how you dance with him. It might seem, I don’t know, more intimate, but really it’s just the alternative to grinding all up on you. And as you may have seen,” she paused, giggling again. “That’s all anyone does in here.”

“Oh,” was all Sam said.

Quinn pushed back a strand of Sam’s hair. If it weren’t for the context, the double venus pin on the collar of Quinn’s dress, an onlooker probably would’ve figured the scene was romantic.

“It’s a little different for us girls, usually more feelings involved. But the boys around here? These clubs just perpetuate hookup culture, a new guy every night. You know, Kurt and Blaine, they’ve been together two years, but they aren’t even exclusive. Anyway, I promise Artie wasn’t trying to intimidate you,” Quinn explained.

“It’s just what guys do here. Find someone hot, fuck, forget their name, all in a night’s work,” Santana added, shrugging.

“There’s no-” Sam hesitated, “talking stage?”

Santana laughed, then stopped abruptly after getting a look at Sam’s expression, “oh, you’re serious.”

“My dad’s a pastor,” Sam admitted.

There was a beat of silence between the trio, Quinn looked thoughtful, deciding what she should say, but she only rested her head on Sam’s shoulder while Santana beat her to it.

“Well,” Santana started, pursing her red lips. “That explains a lot.”

“You’re such an asshole, Santana,” Quinn scolded. “Sam, I swear you can just act like a normal person around here. We won’t bite-”

“Unless that’s what you’re into,” that was Santana.

Quinn charged forward, ignoring her more sarcastic friend. “You don’t need to worry. Just be yourself, Sam. Everyone will like you. I already do.”

“I didn’t offend Artie?” Sam asked, genuinely and innocently.

Santana waved a dismissive hand at Sam’s concerns. “No way. Artie’s a queer in a wheelchair. I guarantee he’s dealt with _much_ worse. Unless-” Santana looked Sam up and down, judging him. “That’s your problem, why you’re freaking out. The chair. In which case, grow the fuck up.”

Quinn quickly turned defensive of her friend too, it seemed to be a sore spot, like there was history there. “If that’s why you’re not interested, I mean, I think that’s really shallow of you, but you should just tell him. You don’t need to coddle him, he’s just a person.”

“Jesus, no! I don’t think that,” Sam exclaimed. “I-I am interested. I think. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Quinn looked relieved, Sam nodded.

“In that case, Sam Evans,” Santana put away her lipstick and looked Sam dead in the eyes. “Get back out there and show him.”

Sam pondered for a moment. It was just a dance right? Quinn reassured him that he didn’t have to, and she could take him home if it was all too much for his first night, no one would be mad.

But Sam couldn’t go home, really. Home was two thousand miles away. Home wasn’t somewhere he was welcome. Sam wanted to embrace his new reality, however intimidating and different. He’d wanted to dance with boys his whole life, through every high school prom and church fundraiser, why would he stop himself now, when he finally had the chance?

“No, thank you, Quinn. I’m alright,” he told her, and he marched confidently out of that restroom and straight onto Artie Abrams’ lap.

 _That’s more like it_ Artie grinned, and Sam did too.

-

They stuck around the bar until late, dancing and drinking and laughing, only leaving when Mike and his co-workers kicked the last stragglers out and locked the doors.

Sam had followed the group of friends as they ambled a few blocks over. Between the drinks and the dark, Sam wasn’t exactly sure how many, but it wasn’t far. They stopped at a light blue two-story. Its paint was peeling, Sam could tell that much even at night, and there was a rickety wood ramp across a little more than half the width of the four steps up to the door.

“Welcome to mi casa,” Artie announced, with a joking grandeur. “Kurt, Blaine, Santana, Britt, and Rachel have the top floor, and the rest of us are downstairs.”

The group parted ways as they went inside, half headed upstairs, offering quick _g’nights_. Sam followed Artie, Quinn, Tina, and Mike further into the downstairs apartment.

It was nothing if not crowded. From the rust coloured carpet to the ceiling, the walls were covered. Bookshelves loaded with textbooks and knick-knacks, an assortment of lamps on tables, newspaper clippings and the types of abstract and modern paintings Sam’s parents would’ve criticized as ‘not real art’ hung on yellow wallpaper. There was enough room between the furniture (none of which matched) for Artie to easily manoeuvre around, but to put it in Layman’s terms, every surface was covered in shit. Coffee cups, vinyl records, a can of hairspray, a few issues of Time and Life magazines.

“It’s chaos, I know,” Artie declared.

“ _Organized_ chaos,” Tina amended.

“I love it,” Sam said.

“I have a routine I need to get to in the bathroom, but the couch is all yours, Sam Evans,” Artie gestured to a green pull out with two multi-coloured afghans thrown across it, before rolling out of the room.

“You’re gonna be okay here?” Quinn asked gently. Sam nodded. “Okay, we’ll let you get settled. Back in a few.”

Tina and Quinn headed off in one direction, Tina smiling with a goodnight wave, and Mike in the other, throwing up a peace sign.

Finally, for the first moment since he’d met these characters, Sam was alone. He pulled the backpack he’d lugged around with him all night off of his shoulder and began going through its contents for the first time since he’d haphazardly packed it. The bag held all his possessions, and most of them would be completely useless in the long run. One change of clothes, a photo of his little brother and sister taken the previous Christmas, a toothbrush, his nearly-empty wallet, and the Bible his parents had gifted him when he was baptized.

Sam held the leather Bible in his usually steady hands, watching them tremble in front of him. For the first time since it had happened, Sam began to softly cry.

He’d put on a brave face back home, when his father had caught him and Rory Flanagan. Acted unfazed. _I wanted to leave anyway_. He’d kissed Stevie and Stacey’s foreheads and marched right out of the house, leaving his father screaming in his wake.

Sam wiped at his eyes. _How could this possibly have happened?_ With everything else in life, Sam had always been so happy-go-lucky, but with this, he’d wanted to have a plan. He had had one. Things just went completely astray, fast. Sam exhaled dejectedly. This wasn’t something he could fix. He sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the apartment around him, distant sirens, running water in another room.

The air conditioner hummed loudly, and a barefoot Quinn, now wearing a pink matching pajama set of shorts and a long tunic-like top, strode out from around the corner and over to where Sam sat on the fold-out couch. He hastily shoved the Bible under a blanket, figuring his new friends would give him shit for still hanging onto beliefs that had so severely ostracized all of them.

“Here,” Quinn handed him a UC Berkeley pullover that he hadn’t even had to ask for. “Hopefully that fits.”

“Thanks,” Sam half-smiled gratefully. “Berkeley?”

“Yeah,” Quinn nodded, leaning against a doorframe. “I graduated in May. Women’s studies.”

“Oh, cool!” Sam attempted to perk up.

“It’s kind of a bullshit degree. I’m not really qualified for much of anything, totally wasted my money in that sense. But I’m passionate about it, I got a job with NOW that pays the bills. I don’t know, maybe I’ll go back to school, become a professor eventually, or I could do something totally different. Tina thinks I’d make a good actress,” Quinn rambled, and Sam nodded along, pretending he knew what NOW was.

Then, Artie joined the two blondes in the living room. “Bathroom’s free. Use whatever you want. Well, maybe not Tina’s stuff, she might lose it on you. But my toothpaste is fully up for grabs. There’s labels on everything, ridiculous, I know.”

“Why are you guys being so nice to me?” Sam whispered, his voice barely audible above the rattling air conditioner.

Quinn exhaled, smiling a bit sadly, and sat down beside Sam, she put her hand on top of his. “We’ve all been where you are. Look, you don’t need to explain anything, but we know what it’s like.”

Artie rolled up next to the couch, his hand joining atop Sam and Quinn’s, he smiled, empathetically but equally devilishly. “Face it, dude. You’re one of us now.”


End file.
